


Tea And Sympathy

by tifaching



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Common Cold, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Schmoop, Slash, Wincest - Freeform, brokenleg!Dean, sneezy!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/pseuds/tifaching
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's leg is killing him, and Sam's cold is getting all the attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea And Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt at [info]mad_server's Once again, but with more colds comment fic meme: Ok, pretend Dean's broken leg lasted longer than two minutes (I KNOW I DO) and he and Sam are working a case.
> 
> SO. Dean's crutching along, in pain, BUUUT. Sam's the one with the cold. He actually feels pretty ok, but his voice sounds croaky and bad and his nose is red and he keeps sneezing HORRENDOUSLY, so everyone's like, Oh, you poor dear, have tea, here are tissues, take my seat. And Sam's all, Umm, my brother, his leg... but no one pays any attention.
> 
> Poor Dean's, like, relegated to his wobbly little corner, feeling all out of sorts, to the point that maybe he even attempts a dramatic fake sneeze to get sympathy, only whoever they're interviewing is like, Whoa, gimpy, say it don't spray it.
> 
> Annnyway, the boys finally get back to the motel and Dean's all sad and hurt and thinks nobody loves him and Sam is like, I love you, have some painkillers and a cuddle, and Dean is like, You're a girl (I love you too).

Dean’s got a reputation for being a whiny princess when he’s sick, but that’s total bullshit as far as he’s concerned. Sam’s the one everyone’s always fawning over. Why would they even do that if the little douche wasn’t sending out “oh pity poor sick me” vibes, complete with liquid, limpid puppy dog eyes. Dean’s not even going to give himself shit for thinking the word limpid, because Sam totally is. Also he’s lame.

Actually, Sam’s not literally lame; that’s Dean’s issue right now. Fucking huge cast on his leg, crutches cutting into his armpits and the grandma they’re interviewing doesn’t even offer him a chair. No, Sam’s got a little sniffle and she’s got him stretched out on her divan (her words, definitely not his. Dean’s got no fucking clue what a divan even is), and she’s practically mopping his fevered brow while brewing up a pot of tea. Sam’s brow is fevered, Dean’s got to admit that much. Hell, he’d be mopping it himself if they were in private. And, you know, he was off his God-damned broken leg.

To give Sam (a little) credit, he looks embarrassed by the attention. He’s shooting Dean contrite looks as granny puts a hand behind his head, not even commenting on his stupid hair, and tries to get him to drink some comforting tea. Dean would love some tea. Hell, he’s got a flask in his pocket that would add just the right amount of comfort to it, way more than Sam’s going to get with cream and sugar. The thought makes him feel a little better, but it’s kind of a moot point because no bone china is headed in his direction.

Sam’s trying to question the old bat about what her great grandfather might have done with her great grandmother’s angry remains, but he’s so stuffed up that he’s practically incomprehensible. The fact that he’s blowing saliva and snot all over the room with every other breath isn’t helping the investigation along either. He’s trying, though. Dean’s got to give him that.

“Ma’amb, we really deed your helb here. And do you thing, my bardner could hab a chair?”

“Oh, I’m sorry dear,” and Dean thinks he’s finally going to be able to get his throbbing leg elevated, thank Christ, “ but I only have the divan in here, and I’m not comfortable having strange men anywhere else in the house. Surely he’ll be fine until you’ve finished your tea?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean’s leg is fucking killing him. “I’ll be fine standing over here with an extra thirty pounds pulling on my broken bones while you finish your tea. Just take your time.”

“See?” The old lady is actually fucking beaming at Sam’s crusty nose. Dean’s sarcasm meter must not be working on all cylinders today. “I told you he’d be fine. After all you’re not feeling well, and that’s got to come first, right? Oh, dear, we seem to be out of tissues. You just lie back and I’ll get you some more. Can’t have that nose running, it just spreads germs.”

“Doe, Doe, thad’s fide, ma’ab. I thing we’ve god all we deed frob you today. “

The old lady looks stricken as Sam heaves himself off of her couch (it’s a couch, damn it), and soaks his sleeve with a series of explosive sneezes. Dean would feel sympathy for his distress if anyone ever showed any damned regard for his. Dean’s got nice eyes, they just don’t remind people of a dog’s. Damn it.

“You okay?” Sam murmurs in Dean’s ear as they head out the door.

“Of course. _My_ nose isn’t running like Niagara Falls, so I _must_ be fine.”

“Deeead.”

“Shut up.” Dean bats Sam’s hands away as his brother tries to help him down the steps. “Don’t touch me with your plague ridden mitts.”

Dean can’t swing himself along fast enough to reach the Impala before Sam does, and he resists the urge to crutch himself around to the driver’s side and open his own damned door. Because that would be stupid. He contents himself with glowering into Sam’s watery dog eyes as he gingerly lowers himself onto the back seat, then slides himself along it until his back’s against the other door and his leg is blessedly stretched out in front of him.

“Where to now?” he grates out, trying not to breathe in rhythm with the pounding in his leg.

“Bag to the roob,” Sam wheezes, coughing a huge ball of phlegm out the window. “You deed to ged off thad leg. You’re as whide as a sheed.”

“You’re wide,” Dean retorts, but he rests his head against the window and doesn’t speak until they’re back at the motel.

Dean’s trying to hook his crutch around the door handle so he can get it open before Sam does it for him, but the damned rubber keeps sliding off the metal. Sam opens the door with a smirk (no, it’s not an apologetic look, it’s a fucking smirk), and Dean hauls himself along the seat until his cast is resting on the pavement and he’s fumbling his crutches under his armpits. Of course he loses his balance halfway up and is about to crack his skull on the top of the doorframe when Sam’s arms are around him, hauling him to his feet. Thankfully, years of training and working together come into play as Sam’s face tightens and they jerk their heads in opposite directions as Sam sprays spit all over the roof of the Impala.

“Dude!”

Sam just twists his mouth up in that apologetically smirky way, and steps back to let Dean make his slow, clumsy way to the room. Dean looks over his shoulder when he realizes Sam’s not behind him, only to see his brother wiping the top of the Impala with his sleeve. It would be sweet and Dean would appreciate the gesture if he didn’t know what a toxic mixture of snot and saliva was already living in Sam’s shirt. Sam’s totally disinfecting his car when he feels better.

Dean’s swaying as he fishes the room key out of his pocket, because no way Sam’s opening this door for him too. He can open his own doors, damn it, he’s not an invalid. He’s a little frustrated, maybe, and maybe he pushes the door a little harder than necessary to get it open. Maybe that’s the reason that it’s not there to lean on when he goes to lean on it and it’s like a slow motion fall until he slams into the disgusting carpet that’s the same color as Sam’s nose drippings.

“I hate this,” and it’s not a whimper, even though the waves of pain crashing though him would totally justify it.

“I doe.” Sam’s right there. “Cad you roll over? Cub od, let be gib you a hand.”

With a few wheezing grunts, and few more not whimpers, Sam’s got Dean’s butt sitting on the bed. Dean’s eyes are tearing as much as Sam’s are now and he blearily watches his brother head for the bathroom.

“Not going to just stand me in a corner and wrap yourself up in a blanket and go to sleep with a hot water bottle or something?”

Sam pokes his head back out of the bathroom. “Why would I do thad?”

Dean just shrugs and stares at his hands. _Everybody else does_.

Sam snorts, but Dean doesn’t think anything of it; Sam’s been snorting a lot these days. “I’b nod everybody else, Deed.”

 _Fuck, I said that out loud_. Dean nods, but doesn’t look up and Sam disappears back into the bathroom. There’s no sound but running water and scrubbing noises for a few minutes, then Sam’s back. He goes to the fridge and pulls out a half dozen bottles of water and juice that he puts on the bedside table. Next he sets up tissues and both his and Dean’s meds so they’re within reach from the bed. He shakes two painkillers into his hand and holds them out with a bottle of water.

“Dake dese.”

“Not from that hand,” Dean murmurs. “Plague, remember.”

“I just scalded byself for fibe binutes in there, with the bost anti-bacterial soap I could fide.” Sam’s hands are pink and smell like grapefruit. “Now dake dem.”

Dean knows that the throbbing in his leg doesn’t lessen as he swallows the pills, but it feels a little better almost immediately, and he’s not going to look that in the mouth. He sighs as Sam eases down on the bed behind him and begins to knead the rock hard muscles in his shoulders. “Marry me,” he murmurs.

“Dod legal,” Sam grins, planting an unintentionally slobbery kiss on the side of Dean’s neck. “But I cad bake you relax, will thad do for dow?”

Dean’s leg is throbbing inside the cast and God,” I wish you could use those magic fingers a little lower, Sammy.”

This time it really is a smirk, but it’s an affectionate one. “Baybe when we’re both feeling better Deed.”

“I meant lower than that, asshole.” Dean’s head is beginning to nod and Sam moves back to lean against the headboard.

“Cad you scootch back?”

“I don’t scootch.”

“Yeah, okay, just ged back here. Unless you want me to drag you up the bed.”

“Don’t you dare. I’m coming.” Dean pushes himself backwards until he’s sprawled between Sam’s legs, back pressed against his brother’s congested chest. “Gonna be able to breathe okay?”

“Mmmmm. Feels good.” Sam’s hands continue to rub Dean’s arms and soon Dean’s head is resting against Sam’s shoulder, and his eyes are sliding shut.

“’S okay, Sammy. You can’t help having puppy eyes. I’d totally take care of you instead of me too.”

“We take care of each other, Deed. Don’t ever think thad I won’t.”

Dean lifts his hand and twines his fingers through Sam’s. It’s all the answer he can give right now, but it’s enough.

Sam swallows his cold meds and soon is just as out as his brother. They both sleep better than they have in weeks, just Dean nestled against Sam, keeping him warm and Sam’s breaths whistling past Dean’s ears in the only white noise he’s ever needed.


End file.
